1781: Crane Manor
by the-bird-howl
Summary: Abbie gets sent to back 1781 three years into the Witnesses' fight against evil. After finding herself being made a servant in the Crane's humble manor two months before Ichabod's death, Abbie struggles with defeating the demons that plague Rev Era America. FULL SUMMARY INSIDE. Rated M. IchabodxAbbie in later chapters.
1. Douglas Valley

**1781: CRANE MANOR**

**COMPLETE SUMMARY: **Abbie gets sent back to 1781, three years after Ichabod awakens in Sleepy Hollow, and three years into the Witnesses' fight against evil. After finding herself being made a servant in the Crane's humble manor two months before Ichabod's death, Abbie struggles with defeating the evils that plague Revolutionary America. But now she must battle them with a version of Crane she's never met before.

**Rating: **Rated M for violence, language and later sexual content.

**A/N: **Hello, and welcome! I'm pretty excited for this fic already, even though I've only mapped about the first 5 chapters. After binging the first season for like the 3rd time I decided that I really wanted to see Abbie in the Rev. Era, and so this fic was born. It was a total labor of love, and I really hope you enjoy it!

Much love,

-Howl

* * *

_CHAPTER 1: DOUGLAS VALLEY_

It was six o'clock at night on a Sunday, when an intruder broke into the Graham's home and attempted to take Mrs. Elizabeth Graham's life.

Well, at least that's what the official statement filed by Captain Frank Irving said.

Mrs. Graham however, had been spewing nonsense about ghosts and revenge and blood, when a group of teenagers found her wandering through the forest behind her home in Sleepy Hollow. There was no trace of an intruder anywhere on site; the only thing left that could be used as evidence were the very bloody remains of her blonde labrador (Trudy) that was strewn across a field of oak trees forty yards into a thick line of trees behind her subdivision home.

For most of the precinct, Mrs. Graham's case was not cause for alarm. But Captain Irving insisted that precautions be taken in order to protect Mrs. Graham and her husband Philip, to whom she'd been wed forty years. What Captain Irving had kept from his inferiors however, was that Elizabeth's cries of ghosts and revenge and blood had shaken him to his very core.

Thirty minutes before they are called in on that same Sunday, Lieutenant Abbie Mills is losing in a game of Scrabble to Professor Ichabod Crane, while sitting in the very run down archives of the Sleepy Hollow Sheriff's Department.

"Phobia? Really Crane?" _That's just not fair_. _And he got a triple word score, dammit!_ She'd managed to rack up some points with 'jukebox', but at this point there was no way she could catch up with him... Not when he was pulling words like 'exhibition' and 'quartz'.

He wasn't even fully paying attention, either. While Abbie was struggling to anagram her letters by cheating on her Webster's Dictionary app, Crane was sitting in his arm chair reading a musty reference text and only occasionally moving around his letters. Abbie rooted her hand around in the letter bag, hoping for a non-vowel.

"Grrrr!" she complained, throwing the piece into the air, over her shoulder. In Crane's mind, it roughly translated to a saying he was fond of: '_This day continues to bare gifts'. _She'd started saying it a few months back, claiming his words had been the perfect melding of sarcasm and Revolutionary Era Charm. "Another fucking '_E'_!"

"Language, Lieutenant," he chided good-naturedly, looking up from the heavy book that sat across his lap. She met his eyes and found them hinted with a jovial glint, a slight grin tugging at his lips. He'd gotten used to her colorful language (and it wasn't unlike himself to throw around a few curses when he was in the mood; though it mostly consisted of '_bloody hell!_' and '_bugger!_'), but never stopped trying to get her to quit, "You have been informed that the letters are supposed to be placed on the board, correct?"

She knew he was taking the piss, but that didn't stop her from being snarky, "You know what Crane? I'll show you where that piece can go, you can shove it right up your-"

But before she could finish the treat, and before he could once again reprimand her profanities, her iPhone rang. The only sounds in the Archive were the three rings of her mobile as Abbie composed herself, before answering the call.

"Lieutenant Mills," her voice was level again, but she'd almost slipped up and pronounced her titled as '_Left_tenant' as Crane so often called her.

"No Captain, we're not doing anything. Crane's just whipping my ass at Scrabble." Ichabod's eyes followed her around the room as she pushed away from the table and stood, smiling at something Captain Irving had said. He could hear the muffled words of Irving's voice against her ear, but the sound was too quiet for him to make them out. Abbie's mouth suddenly furrowed, her full lips tightening in disapproval. Ichabod didn't miss a beat as she gave her farewells to the Captain and ended their call. He straightening in his seat, awaiting her recountment of the short conversation.

"A woman at Douglas Valley is saying she was attacked by a ghost," she made her way closer to the door, "Irving wants us to check it out. Said he'd explain everything when we got there."

He nodded and got up to follow her, closing his large book and abandoning their game. They had to make a detour to Abbie's cubicle in the station before going to her car: she'd forgotten her keys in her office desk, and needed to retrieve them.

The precinct was full to the brim today. Officers shuffled about, teaming to work on their cases or interrogate a vic. On their way out the door, Abbie's car key in hand, they were stopped abruptly in the main corridor.

Sat upon a wooden bench across from Irving's office was Jenny, her right hand cuffed to the armrest of her seat. Her curly hair was pulled back as always, along with her ever present frown. Luke was standing beside her, scowling down at her. His face softened when he looked up and saw Abbie rushing down the hallway, but tensed back up when he spotted Crane tailing behind her.

"Hey Abbie," the officer greeted, still trying to win back her favor.

Abbie ignored Luke as she jogged towards the bench her younger sister was cuffed to. "Jenny what happened?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but Luke was quicker, making ignoring his existence impossible. "This one was caught shoplifting in the Wawa downtown," he nodded to the woman sitting down when he spoke the words _'this one'_; his hands were on his hips in attempt to make himself look more intimidating (to who though, Abbie wasn't sure).

Jenny didn't return her sister's gaze as she shrugged, "My finger slipped."

"I believe the word _kleptomania_ is one you should familiarize yourself with, Miss Jenny." Crane said, disapproving as he looked down at her. After three years he'd begun to think of Jenny as a sister, always trying to look out for her, and impart wisdom when it applied.

"Not helping, Crane," Abbie said, looking over her shoulder to her fellow Witness.

Abbie turned back to her ex-boyfriend, "Uncuff her. You can deal with this later." Jenny's was a frequent face in the Sleepy Hollow Sheriff's Department after being released from Terrytown Hospital two years ago. Even though she'd only had herself arrested to keep Abbie safe from the demon Ancitif, the adrenaline fueled thrill of occasional shoplifting never left her.

"I'm afraid I can't do that." She could tell Luke was trying to keep his cool. When they'd been dating she could remember how he would have flashes of anger if he was excited too quickly.

"The key, Luke. Now."

"No way, Abbie," Luke's hands left his hips as he used them to gesture widely, "she's a convict. She's not allowed to leave the station until the report is processed."

"Look, you wanna talk to someone about this? Talk to Irving." Abbie's voice was clipped. She really didn't feel like dealing with Luke today, "She might be your convict, but she's still a consultant to the Captain." A few months after Jenny had been made a permanent member of Team Anti-Apocalypse, Irving decided it would be best she be made a consultant to the station, so she wouldn't raise suspicion when spotted around crime scenes.

"What? Like the Professor, here?" Luke turned his neck to give the Brit a once over that ended at Crane's eyes, their height differences accentuated when Luke looked up into Ichabod's face and scowled.

"Exactly like that," Abbie sneered, reaching into her pocket and using her own key to unlock Jenny's handcuffs. The younger Mills stood, rubbing at her wrist where the shackle had cut into her skin. Abbie prodded her sister to walk forward, placing a hand at the small of her back. Crane tagged along when Abbie finally turned back to Luke and said, deadpan, "Don't worry, I'll be sure she makes the court date."


	2. Under the Mistletoe

_God almighty_. She wanted to run her tongue along his neck more than anything in the world.

But who could blame her? Because, in Abbie's defense, _what the fuck was the point of the First Witness being a hot-ass piece of manmeat if the Second Witness- namely herself- couldn't fuck his brains out?_ It honestly made no sense to her.

_Jesus, get a grip Abbie._

It was true that she found Crane exceedingly attractive (all sinewy muscle, and rustic features. Her kink for continuously hearing him call her 'Miss Mills' even after years of intimate acquaintanceship didn't hurt either), but she still respected the fact that he was a married man. Even if said married man's _wife_ was trapped in an endless purgatory with no means of escape.

_No, Abbie- just NO._

She wasn't going to ruin her friendship with Crane just because she thought she might love him in a non-platonic way.

"Lieutenant?"

The call of Crane's voice pulled her out of her internal soliloquy, and when she found his face she was instantly frozen once again, trapped by that damned beard of his. The length of his neck was stretched as he gazed up into the branches of a tree that stood before him, Adam's apple defined beneath the point where his facial hair ended and his alabaster skin began. As he reached up to thumb the leaves of his specimen, the fluid fabric of his billowing tunic (that he still insisted on wearing occasionally, even after she demanded he change wardrobe. She didn't want to be mean about it, but his original clothes had become rank after 3 years of nonstop action) tightening against the defined muscle of his athletic waist.

_God, he's so attractive. And he doesn't even know it._

She finally refocused on the task at hand, and found herself surrounded by a thorny bramble. Inspecting the forest above her, she could see the tell tale leathery foliage of a parasitic plant. It was the same greenery that was growing on the oak Crane stood before, as well as inside the Graham's home.

"Mistletoe?" She looked to Crane for confirmation, who nodded his head enthusiastically in return: '_Looks like we're getting somewhere'_, it said.

Her brow furrowed, "But mistletoe doesn't grow naturally in Sleepy Hollow, or even in the woods around it."

"Correct, Miss Mills." he nodded, congratulating her on the deduction. He returned his sights back to investigating the plant, eyes alight with the information streaming through his frankly amazing eidetic mind, "This particular brand of flora- _Viscus album-_ can only be found in Europe, as well as some parts of Asia. So the questions we should be asking are thus: _Who raises mistletoe in these woods, and for what purpose?_"

"Purpose?" Abbie turned her eyes from Crane back to the oak being strangled by mistletoe. Behind her, Jenny was treading lightly across the woods near the police tape outlining their crime scene, trying to avoid being spotted by her sister. She plucked a leaf from the plant above her, and made her way past Captain Irving, towards the Lieutenant.

"According to various legends, mistletoe can be used as a deterrent to ward off certain demons- like a kind of shield, to protect you." Jenny pitched in, stepping across a log and joining the Witnesses.

Abbie's eyebrow arched as she cocked her head and turned to look at her sister, "I thought I told you to stay in the car?" It wasn't a question, but it sure sounded like one.

"It's been like an hour. And besides, when has you telling me what to do ever worked?"

Ichabod bowed his head, as to not tangle in a low-hanging branch, as he quickly escaped the crossfire of his bickering allies. Crane had learned the hard way not to intervene in the '_You can't tell me how to live my life!'_ fight. Usually he would attempt to separate the siblings during a heated argument, but this bout would last no more than a few minutes: Miss Jenny would grow tired of the good Lieutenant's constant nagging, and just walk away, leaving her older sister to trail after her, shouting criticisms.

From behind the trunk of another unhealthy oak, where he could still hear Abbie's heated words, Ichabod studied the parasite clinging to the dying branches.

The squabble climaxed quicker than expected, resulting in (as anticipated) Jenny storming away from Abbie, back to the car, and Abbie shouting something about not touching the firearms in her trunk. Miss Jenny, who of course always needed to have the last word, muttered to herself that she could always use her own damn gun, she's got like twelve.

Ichabod dared to sneak a look at the fuming Lieutenant, who was cradling her forehead in her right hand, while supporting the arm with her left. She looked defeated, once again unable to go a few hours without avoiding domestics while trying to help to save the world. She composed herself with a sigh, and pushed the loose fringe of her hair away before taking the steps to stand beside Crane, unable to look away from the dirt floor.

"Alright, Lieutenant?" he asked of his fellow Witness, unable to see her distressed.

She met his face with the tug of a smile that did not quite reach her eyes, "Fine," her voice was clipped, unsteady. She cleared her throat, and took the mistletoe clipping he held in his hand; she saw him reach for it reflexively as she grabbed it from him, but he kept quiet, and said nothing to get it back.

"So," she began, twisting the twig between her thumb and forefinger, examining the small berries, "mistletoe. Wards off evil, huh? Does that include the ghost that the vic saw here in Douglas Valley?"

"Perhaps. When we first entered the Graham's home, their entryway was decorated with holly and-"

"Mistletoe." Abbie finished for him, picking up his trail. Over the past few years their minds had begun to function on the same wavelength, occasionally spooking Irving to the point of believing that a Vulcan Mind Meld had been involved (Abbie then had to explain the Mind Meld to Crane, followed by explaining Star Trek, which led to twelve hours of couchsurfing between Abbie's apartment and Crane's cabin to finish the first season of _Star Trek: The Original Series_ between bouts of saving the world. Sufficed to say that Crane left Abbie's apartment with bloodshot eyes and a much broader scope of the universe).

"Exactly. At first I had dismissed it for simple Yuletide folly, but perhaps…"

"Perhaps, Mr. Graham knows more than he says he does."

Ichabod nodded in agreement. When they interrogated the husband, Mr. Graham continuously stuttered over his words and couldn't keep his recountment straight, "It would explain why the wraith had only appeared to Missus Graham and did not attack her." The gestures he made with his clenched hands became more animated as the cogs in his mind began connecting, beginning on a new thought.

"The holiday season has barely begun, and although your generation seems to be fascinated with the idea of decorating for each new holiday the moment the former has ended: does it not seem strange to furnish for Christmas during late October?"

"Yeah, I did think it was kinda weird…" Abbie's voice petered out to a soft hum, as she looked around the crime scene. The dozen officers that still remained were interviewing the few witnesses on clarifications, while taking notes in their small books.

"Alright…" Abbie finally sighed, massaging her forehead in defeat, "Let's see what we can find back at the station. Got everything you need?"

"Indeed, Miss Mills." Crane assured her, plucking his mistletoe clipping out of her small hand and placing it into the evidence bag he'd been keeping in his coat pocket. Abbie rolled her eyes as he made a show of zipping it closed, the tug of her smile finally feeling genuine.

The ground turned from dirt to asphalt as the Witnesses made their way back to Abbie's Jeep. Abbie yawned loudly before pulling the keys from her pocket, only to ignite a similar cry from Crane. She laughed. "So, Starbuck's then?" she suggested, in the mood for a pick-me-up.

"Assuredly." Their selection of teas was sub-par, but Crane could appreciate the option of an espresso-shot on rare occasions. "Will Miss Jenny be riding back to the precinct with us?"

"You can ask her yourself, if you want," Abbie gestured to her younger sister, who Crane had not yet noticed to be splaying herself across Abbie's car, the heels of her hands behind her on the hood. Her head was thrown back in laughter at something the Captain had said. He as well was chuckling, the pearly white of his teeth happily on display, and the phone perpetually holding his attention surprisingly hidden in his breast pocket (apparently along with his ever-present scowl). Abbie had a hard time admitting that she thought Irving might reciprocate her sister's feelings for him, however hard Jenny tried to deny her own towards the Captain.

Abbie used the electronic car key to unlock the vehicle, making Jenny and Irving jump apart at the honk. Jenny scowled at her older sister, who only smirked back, Crane shaking his head in Abbie's peripheral.

"We're headed back to the precinct to do some research," the Lieutenant told her superior, stepping closer to her car as Crane climbed into to the passenger side. Abbie looked over to her sister on the hood, "Coming with?"

"Yeah," Jenny replied, jumping off the Jeep. She glanced back at Irving and smirked, ushering him out of the way, before opening the door beside him and sliding into the car.

"You're staying here, right?" Abbie asked, looking up to Irving's face as she reached for her door handle.

He nodded. "Yeah. The guys here want to look around one more time before heading back, I thought I'd stay and help."

"Alright, see you there," she waved lazily before climbing into the driver's side and starting the Jeep, its engine roaring to life beneath her.

As they pulled away from the crime scene, the forest was quickly replaced by the suburban community surrounding it. November was Sleepy Hollow's rainy season, and many of the endless potholes along the road were littered with puddles, each more dangerous to drive through than the last. Abbie tried to avoid them, but would occasionally miss one and violently rock the passengers of her Jeep, cursing and apologizing as she tried to right them again.

"Okay," Abbie started, as she turned onto Main Street, avoiding yet another hole in the road, "Jenny you seem to know the most about the mistletoe." She looked at her sister through the rearview mirror, only able to catch a glimpse of her sister's fierce eyebrows. "Care to explain?"

"Sure." Jenny cleared her throat and made herself comfortable in the limited space of the backseat (Crane liked to take up most of the space by pushing his chair all the way back, to make room for his ridiculous, spidery long legs). "Basically, mistletoe was primarily used by the Celtics to scare away any type of evil spirit: Faeries, ghosts, daemons. A lot of them hung it over their beds to scare away bad dreams."

"Like a dreamcatcher?"

"Yeah." Jenny nodded in confirmation, "But it was more than that. Other cultures around the world took to wearing talismans made of mistletoe to protect themselves from harm. Like a good luck charm."

In the corner of her eye Abbie could see Crane trying to focus, eyes closed and hands pressed together at the bottom of his nose, as if in prayer. It made Abbie grin. "You're thinking pretty hard over there. Anything you'd like to share with the class?"

The moment of study was shattered by Abbie's interruption, but Crane had gathered enough from the bowels of his memory, "I had not thought of the tale for a long time, until Miss Jenny mentioned the Celtic mythologies; but when I was young, my father once told me the story of Baldr, the Celtic god, who was defeated with an arrow of mistletoe. "

"Not that you'd need it." the younger Mills goaded, "Just fire that famous Abbie death-stare his way, and you'd be good as gold."

Abbie wanted to shoot her sister a death stare that moment, but settled for tightening her grip on the steering wheel instead, her knuckles whitening. "Care to roll back the attitude?"

"Well, just because you're the Chosen One, it doesn't mean I have to be nice to you."

"I'm not the Chosen One," Abbie scowled, finally shooting her sister a glare from the rearview mirror.

Jenny snorted, leaning back into her seat and muttered, "Close enough."

Crane shifted awkwardly when Abbie turned into the precinct parking lot. "Ergo, the employment of such a plant would make those who use it deadly to such evils." he supplied, hoping to put them back on track.

Jenny nodded from the backseat, unbuckling as Abbie pulled into her parking space, "Exactly."


	3. Coven

**A/N:** Hello everyone! There's only a few of you right now, but I already am floored by the positive responses I've gotten on the first two chapters, they warm this young author's heart. The beginning of this chapter was meant to be attached to the end of Chapter 2, but I felt like it was getting too long, so I cut it. I think I like it better this way.

Much love!

-Howl

* * *

_CHAPTER 3: COVEN_

It was four o'clock the next afternoon by the time either Witness found anything of use.

Scattered about the bookmarked pages of old texts, scrolls, and different copies of the Bible, were the empty Starbuck's cups from last night Abbie never bothered to throw away, and Chinese takeout boxes that she'd gotten delivered an hour before. Crane had refused to open his fortune cookie so Abbie took his, and enjoyed the second just as well as her first. Jenny had been with them earlier, but disappeared sometime between 2:00 and 3:00 PM (Abbie suspected it was to 'bother' Captain Irving again).

"Hey, listen to this," the Lieutenant declared, breaking the silence in the old archive.

Abbie sat perched on a bar stool behind the tall desk at the center of their office. Crane had camped out in his armchair beside the unlit fireplace. They'd moved much of the junk and dust bunnies out years ago, but it still held the same old Revolutionary charm (i.e. musty books and furniture from the Ghost of Centuries Past, as far as Abbie was concerned). She moved closer to Crane and pushed a thick book into his lap, pointing to an excerpt.

"_Wraith_." she read over his shoulder, "Popular mostly in European cultures and mythology; they are the remnants of violent souls pulled from a human body." The book's illustration depicted a frightening monster. It was the same creature that Mrs. Graham had described while her mind was still muddled from the adrenaline of almost being murdered. Before all of the Apocalypse/Horseman nonsense, this creature was once the image Abbie thought was synonymous with Death itself: a total Grim Reaper. Hood and everything, scythe not included (of course now she'd actually met Death: Abraham Van Brunt- former aristocrat and lady-killer, turned slave to Moloch- who neither carried a scythe or wore a cape).

"But this is the best part." Abbie said, finally grinning. She moved her finger and pointed to a new part of the excerpt. "Wraith kryptonyte? It's mistletoe." Kryptonyte was one of the few pop culture references Crane actually understood.

A shiver ran down Ichabod's spine as he stared into the creature's face. Underneath its black parchment hood was void. If a face had been there, he assumed it would be emaciated with age and decay. Beneath its portrait, three words were printed in a neat calligraphy. _ANIMA QUI REPETIT_, it read.

"Taker of souls," Ichabod muttered under his breath. His long pale finger reached out to graze the dark lettering. The page was cold under his touch- almost as if the Wraith itself had sucked all life from the harrowed pages. Around his hood, scraps of old fabric blew in the wind, remnants of the parchment cloak clasped around his neck. Crane corrected himself: _Its_ neck. The creature was entirely gender-fluid, free of all distinctions between male and female. All possible classifications of who the soul had once belonged to were swept clean, left in the ground to rot with its body.

He quickly scanned the passage of text that continued below the drawing. The words outlined in fuller detail what Abbie had already told him, however one specific passage stuck out in his mind. He read it aloud to her.

"_As a servant to those who wield their Blade of Dominion, horde of Wraith Daemons have been known to unwillingly pillage, reap and destroy some of the most fertile nations of peoples in Covenant history- most notably, the Sisterhood of the Radiant Heart in 1749._"

"Radiant Heart?" Abbie repeated, her brow furrowing, "Where have I heard that name before?"

"From Katrina." Ichabod told her, his face full of something unreadable, "The Sisterhood of the Radiant Heart was her Coven."

Abbie blinked, not knowing what to do.

A moment passed before anything was said between the two Witnesses. Abbie was never fully comfortable while discussing Katrina, so she carefully directed the conversation towards the passage in Crane's lap.

"So wraiths can be made into servants?"

"So it would seem." his voice was still detached, his mind elsewhere. _Thinking about Katrina, no doubt._

"Does that mean the ghost that attacked Elizabeth Graham was really sent there to kill her?"

That pulled Crane out of his stupor.

"Miss Mills," He turned in his armchair to look up at her, the arm that his chin had been resting on was suddenly brought down to the armrest with a _thud_. "I believe Elizabeth would be dead at his moment if it were not for the mistletoe protecting her home. Perhaps the one who possesses the Blade of Dominion wanted to murder her for some reason."

"Well it's not as if we don't know who sent them," she rolled her eyes. All this Anti-Apocalypse stuff was really tiring her out. She turned back to her stack of books, hoping to find solace in the chronicles of years gone by. "Moloch _obviously_ needs Elizabeth and Philip dead for some reason. We just need to figure out why."

"Then I believe we owe the Grahams a visit."

Abbie grabbed her jacket from the tall coat rack, perching momentarily on tip-toes to reach the collar of her leather bomber. A grin tugged at the corner of Ichabod's mouth, once again entertained by the petiteness of his closest friend (or _BFF_, as Miss Mills sometimes called him). He began to button up the chest of his old overcoat- now more like a second skin, _he never took the damn thing off_\- as Abbie reached his side, zipping up to protect herself from the cold.

"Ready?" She asked, taking a deep breath and looking up to meet his eyes. The sides of her mouth were upturned in what he supposed was meant to be a reassuring grin. It offered no relief, but he appreciated the sentiment.

"As I'll ever be, Lieutenant," he answered, expelling a large breath as he lifted his arm, gentlemanly escorting her outside.

She blushed at the formality and took a step to exit, but not before Jenny called them back, appearing from the bowels of the Archive.

"Wait you two!"

"What is it, Jenny?" Abbie asked, huddling in her jacket to shield herself from the nippy corridor.

"Look up." A smirk played on her sister's face, as both she and Crane glanced up at the same moment. Above them, the plump white berries of a mistletoe clipping wrapped in a red bow decorated the archway of the door.

Abbie made no attempt to move away from Crane, but rolled her eyes, hoping it distracted from the blush moving further up her face and across her chest. "It's not even Christmas," Abbie deflected.

"Never too early to start!"

"Stop stealing the evidence!" Abbie shouted, before ushering a flushed Crane out the door and slamming it behind them.

The ride to Douglas Valley was quiet. Other than the hum of an alternative rock station playing quietly from the speakers, there were no sounds inside the car. Abbie let the countryside run past them as she drove, the town quickly turning to forest. Douglas Valley was a relatively new subdivision of homes at the edge of Sleepy Hollow's village proper, to where many of the town's elderly had decided to relocate in the past six months.

It wasn't so much of a secluded neighborhood, but rather a small subcommunity inside Sleepy Hollow (people around town were of course gossiping about what the group of elderlies were doing cooped up inside the gated community. Some said they were reliving the 1970's, but after meeting the Grahams, that was one image Abbie did not want to have in her mind's eye). As she drove them through the tall gates, Abbie and Crane could see the small strip of shops owned by some of the residents: grocer, clothier, the smallest post office Abbie had ever seen, and of course, Graham Antiquities.

When Miss Mills finally turned her Jeep into the car park of the strip mall, Ichabod released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Even after three years, motor vehicles were still something he had trouble with, and the motion sickness didn't help. Abbie leapt from the car as he took his time unbuckling, going over the questions he hoped to ask Mr. Graham: _What is the purpose of the mistletoe in your home? Are you the ranchers of the aforementioned vegetations? What say you to the Evils plaguing this town?_

Abbie reached the door to the antique shop before Ichabod, and pushed the _Open_ door widely ajar. The interior of the store was not unlike any pawn shop Abbie had been in before: various items ranging in purpose and price, all with a fair amount of dust and holes littering them. She stood alone in the center of the shop, facing the counter, when a bell above the front door chimed. Abbie looked over her shoulder to see Crane enter. His eyes widened: eidetic memory already taking in and sorting away the items lining Mr. Graham's shelves. If there was something fishy about the Grahams, this was probably the place to go looking for evidence.

Abbie wandered around the premises, occasionally picking up or touching the less delicate wares. She noticed that a majority of the items available to touch seemed to be from the past 40 years, but along the walls ran glass domes housing items of much more prestigious value. On closer inspection of a particularly old wax doll beneath its dome, Abbie was near enough to read the ident-tag attached to her cotton pinafore: _Child's Wax Doll. Circa 1792. $1,500._

Underneath a display to the doll's left, was a crystal bowl full of spent musket shells. _Patriot Musket Shell Casings. Hudson Valley, NY. Circa 1780. $120/shell,_' it read. The shells had begun to crumble and rust with age, but appeared to be well looked after; In fact, many of the Revolutionary antiquities seemed to be in much better condition than any of the other pieces of merchandise in the entire shop.

"Hey Crane," Abbie called, getting his attention. He was across the room- staring at old scarves on a horizontal rack- when he turned around. She tapped at the glass protecting the bullets, directing his view towards them. The side of her mouth tugged with a sly smile, "These yours, old man?"

She didn't wait for his reply before she giggled, but moved out of the way so he could get a better look at them. "Very amusing, Lieutenant." he humored, rolling his eyes.

Abbie grinned while wandering over to the desk, where she rang the bell next to an old register. No one answered the call.

Crane wandered behind the counter and was now poking his head behind a curtain that probably lead to the back room.

"Lieutenant," he hailed. "I believe our search has come to an end."

Abbie strode over to Crane and looked past his bent shoulder, her boots clacking on the worn hardwood flooring of the shop. Through the doorway, Abbie could see nothing more than a few spare boxes and a circular table for employees to enjoy their lunch. Behind the table was a small kitchenette: sink, counter, and refrigerator, nothing fancy. There was a window in the corner of the room, right of the refrigerator, and it was casting a harsh afternoon shadow across a length of the space.

Sitting at the break table was Mr. Graham.

He was faced away from them, and when Abbie circled the room to get a better look at his face Crane remained stock still in the doorway.

Philip's salt and pepper hair seemed to have been scattered with much more grays than the last time Abbie had seen him. The wrinkles and bags beneath his circular glasses were hollowing his face, and along with the shadow covering his body, made the old man's features look skeletal.

It reminded Crane of the wraith's nonexistent- but emaciated- face that he had invented in his mind.

"Mr. Graham?" she called to him. He gave no reaction to their presence.

"Mr. Graham, it's Lieutenant Abbie Mills from the Sheriff's department." She clarified when he didn't respond, his glazed eyes lazy and unfocused, "I interviewed you about the creature that attacked your wife a few nights ago."

She moved to pull the Glock from the holster on her right hip. Using her free hand, Abbie touched his shoulder, hoping he would turn around.

Huge mistake.

Before she could react and pull away, Mr. Graham's arm propelled out to take Abbie's in a vice-like grip. She wrestled to get free, but as she did, the fiercely strong nails tugging into her skin broke flesh, and her eyes threatened to begin flooding as a shooting pain spread through her.

Ichabod rushed to her side instantly, and grabbed hold of Phillip's wrists, trying to free his partner. It was no use. Mr. Graham's face was alight with rage, his eyes no longer the pretty baby-blues Abbie had noticed two days ago: these were deranged, livid eyes. Surrounding the pupils, the color was no longer glazed, but instead the irises had turned an electric bloodshot red.

Simply trying to pull away from his aggressive hold turned futile, and as the blood pooling at Abbie's wrist grew more intense, Phillip's frenzy grew fiercer.

"Crane! On the back of my belt, the pepper spray! Use it!" Abbie shouted.

Crane pounced at her backside, searching for the Mace attached to her hip. When he found it at last, he freed it from behind her empty holster (gun now lost on the floor) and sprayed liberally in her attacker's face.

Mr. Graham screamed, detaching himself from Abbie in an ardent attempt to nurse his burning retinas. Abbie screamed as well: residual Mace from the dispersal had flown into the gushing wound on her arm, burning all the way to her bone.

Crane wrapped his arms around Abbie protectively and pulled her to him, moving them to the far wall of the room. They watched Phillip writhe on the floor until he wore himself out, sagging defeatedly in weak heap.

They were both shaking, Abbie more so. The adrenaline coursing through the Lieutenant made her feel as though she would explode. She cradled her wounded arm with her uninjured left hand. Crane's arms were still wrapped around her shoulder and waist as they attempted to catch their respective breaths- but flushed this way against him, Abbie couldn't help but revel in the tightness of his stomach, or the contours of his waist clearly defined underneath his flimsy cotton button-up.

_Are you really thinking about this right now? You were just attacked! You're covered in blood! PRIORITIES!_

"What's wrong with his eyes? Other than the Mace, I mean." Abbie asked, leaning forward to get a closer look at him. Phillip's nearly closed eyes were overflowing with tears, but the burning red of his irritated skin was clearly visible from his fetal position on the floor.

Ichabod retracted his arms from Abbie's waste as he stepped around her, and crouching beside Mr. Graham. Crane cocked his head to the side and reached out to touch the now limp (but aware) form. Mr. Graham moaned indecipherably.

"They took his soul. He is still lucid, but dying slowly- I don't think there is anything to cure it." Crane removed his hand from Phillip's shoulder, standing back up to face this partner.

Abbie's brow furrowed, "And how do you know this?"

"No mistletoe. If the wraiths had managed to attack Mr. Graham here, then that means there was nothing protecting him. Perhaps he didn't know _how_ to protect himself."

Abbie nodded. "So he didn't know anything, after all."

"No, he didn't." said a voice from behind them.

In the doorway stood Mrs. Graham, with a clipping of mistletoe in her lapel.


	4. Manor

_CHAPTER 4: MANOR_

There was a hollow silence around the break table in Phillip's shop. Neither witness nor Mrs. Graham dare speak a word as they slowly watched the last flares of life leave Mr. Graham's decrepit form. What was left of him was huddled on the ground, twitching every few seconds- the flick of his fingers the only indication that his heart still carried a pulse. After seven uninterrupted minutes of silence, the twitch stopped.

Ichabod mentally recorded the time. 6:32pm: the moment Elizabeth Graham became a widow.

Abbie sat closest to the door, a natural instinct, the reaction of fight or flight ingrained into her subconscious; if it were to be the latter, she wished for the quickest escape route. Ichabod was at Abbie's left, long legs jutting up and down rapidly beneath the table top. She wanted to reach a hand out and silence the rapping of his heal but restrained herself, allowing Crane his small vice. Elizabeth sat across from her, beside the window. The last chair sat pathetically empty, its intended occupant lying expired on the floor.

Mrs. Graham, who sat with her husband's still corpse on the ground beside her, made no attempt at conversation and waited patiently (if reluctantly) for the Lieutenant and her partner to begin their inevitable barrage of questions.

Abbie was the first to speak.

"Did you know someone was after you?"

"Yes." Elizabeth's face revealed nothing, and in the orange light of dusk, a ray of receding sunshine dashed across the room to light her aging face.

"Are you aware of _what_ is after you?" Ichabod asked.

"I know Moloch sent his minions to kill me the night I was attacked. I know they just killed my husband." she spoke as if she were ticking items from a grocery list. "And," she turned and gave Abbie a stern once over, "I know you're more than just a police lieutenant."

Abbie tried not to appear phased. "If you knew this was going to happen, why didn't you do anything to protect Phillip? You could have given him some mistletoe, right? That's what you use to protect yourself." She nodded to the berries fastened to Elizabeth's overcoat.

Elizabeth cleared her throat, moving her hand to the wooden table top, and restlessly spread her fingers across it, clearing away nonexistent dust particles. "I did love my husband very much, but I have a _higher purpose_. And if exposing my knowledge or identity to him would have saved his life, then allowing his death was a sacrifice I am willing to make."

"That's sick."

"That's life," Elizabeth sneered through clenched teeth.

Crane coughed. "If you don't mind my asking, what is this _higher purpose_? Why is Moloch after you? You seem to be knowledgeable in the occult, but that is not reason enough to be considered a threat."

"It's not what I know that he's after," she said, "it's what I have hidden away."

_What?_ Abbie searched the newly widowed woman's face for answers but found nothing. The creases and wrinkles that stretched across her face were wan with age, and the short greying bob that sat at her rounded chin shifted slightly was she turned to meet Abbie's eyes.

"You're a witch." Ichabod stated clearly, eyes widening.

She nodded. "The Sisterhood entrusted me to protect an item I keep in my possession. Moloch-" she swallowed hastily, clenching and unclenching the hand resting on the table, "He wants it. He needs it."

"Well, care to stop being vague and tell us _what_ this mystery item is?"

Crane shot her a disapproving look, but she didn't care. She was past niceties. All Abbie wanted was to get this over with. She wanted to go home, draw herself a hot bubble bath, and not think about Moloch for the next fifty to one hundred years.

"The Morning Star." Elizabeth received only blank stares. "It was a gift from God to his Archangel Lucifer, a stone that has the ability to transcend space and time. Moloch wants it."

Ichabod nodded, attempting to put the pieces together. "Is that why the Horde of wraith deamons attacked the Sisterhood in 1749? To get the Stone?"

"No, that's not why," Elizabeth shook her head. Closing her eyes lightly, the witch lowered her head, as though it were a memory she'd prefer to not rediscover. "Rumors spread like wildfire that year; whispers in the dark. People spoke of the First Witness being brought into the world. Many tried to kill the babe but all were defeated but the Sisterhood."

"Me?" Ichabod's voice was small. Abbie could count on one hand the number of times she'd seen him cower in fright.

Mrs. Graham nodded. "In the blue moon of 1750 a mate was born, raised and sworn to protect the Witness from infancy."

"Katrina." Abbie murmured, meeting Crane's sad eyes.

She nodded again. "You married her, Ichabod. It was her duty to protect you, long before your paths ever crossed."

Abbie could see that Crane was slowly being drawn into himself, and would soon be too lost to find his way home again. His eyes were downcast, full of sadness and longing- she'd seen him this way before, when he was especially homesick or parched of his darling wife.

The Lieutenant wanted nothing more than to have the strength to pull him out again, before he drowned in his reverie. "So if Moloch wasn't looking for the Morning Star in '49 why does he want it now?" She thought perhaps changing the subject would pull him out of his funk- maybe a Cornetto when they got home, too.

"He wishes to kill the First Witness before he is borne to his proper time."

Crane sighed, "Unsurprising. Moloch seems to have an affinity for trying to kill me."

It almost made Abbie laugh how right he was- though the thought also made her want to cry. Why was it that she and Ichabod were the Chosen Two? Why couldn't the burden be carried by someone else, namely someone much stronger.

She sighed. "So what's the game plan? How do we stop Moloch from getting the Stone?"

Elizabeth grinned now. Not a reassuring, supportive grin but an abrasive, forced tug of the lips. "It's simple really." She pushed back from the table and stood, smoothing out her collar and with it, the clipping of mistletoe. It rustled as she walked around the table and into the showroom of the antiquities shop. Both Witnesses craned their heads around the door frame to see what the witch was doing. There was a fierce rumbling, followed by a crack, and from beneath the floorboard of her shop Elizabeth pulled a brick-sized mahogany box, blithely wrapped in a deep crimson velveteen sash.

Setting the box upon their table, she remained standing and began mechanically removing items from the case. A small glass vial of a curious blue substance. Deerskin surgical gloves (which Mrs. Graham did not put on, but instead bypassed and laid on the table beside Ichabod). And lastly, a baleful looking syringe- empty- but Abbie assumed that was what the blue tonic was for.

"It's simple," she repeated, nodding to Abbie, "Miss Mills will be suspended using the Stone, and placed in a time more apt for stopping Moloch from retaining the Dagger. Without it, he will have neither the power or ability to steal the Stone from the Sisterhood."

Ichabod squinted his eyes and cocked his head to the side as Elizabeth began assembling her needle, blue tonic being sucked into the syringe.

"Do I get any say in this?" Abbie questioned, backing up in her chair as Elizabeth neared her, syringe in hand. "Because I really don't have _any_ inclination to go time travelling."

"I'm sorry Miss Mills, the decision has been made for you."

"By who?"

"By the Sisterhood." Elizabeth said plainly.

And then the witch was upon her, syringe stabbing into Abbie's forearm before either the Lieutenant or Crane could register that the witch had moved.

"What is that?" Ichabod shouted, as the needle was ripped from Abbie's flesh once more and the power of a foreign tonic in her veins began to surge towards her heart.

"Something to help her sleep, I assure you."

Abbie opened her mouth but already her tongue felt like drying cotton against her lips, "I don't want to sleep," she managed.

Elizabeth cocked her head and grinned, feigning confusion, "Well it's too late to back out now, you're already halfway there."

"What does that mean?" Abbie questioned. Her head was beginning to spin.

"Twenty minutes ago, when you entered my shop. I enacted the Stone the moment you crossed the threshold."

"You're insane."

"On the contrary, Miss Mills, I knew you would not go willingly, but this mission is one that must be completed by the Second Witness."

Forcefully, Abbie pushed herself from the table, trying to distance herself from the witch. Upon standing however the world tilted and blood rushed from Abbie's head. Crane rushed to her side, though not quickly enough to sustain her entire body weight. They crashed to the floor together, his arms protectively wrapped around her waist as she gasped up at the witch's face.

Mrs. Graham towered over them, magic like a flame emulating from the tips of her fingers, outstretched from the rest of her body. From beneath her crisp collar Elizabeth pulled the Stone, gleaming bright in all its glory, crimson against its shining gold chain. Her being glowed with it. Elizabeth's eyes, previously blue were now flames as well, a surging force pulsing in time with the slowing beat of Abbie's heart.

"You will know the Bringer of Light, Grace Abigail Mills." she said, "If you do not succeed: Death, Pestilence, War, Famine- all will follow in your wake. If the Witness dies before he is borne, all will be lost."

Above the bellowing of Crane's impossibly loud voice trying to resurrect his partner, Elizabeth's managed to be velveteen soft; caressing Abbie into a placid stupor. Abbie reached up, trying to fight off her inevitable sleep. Grasping above her, she tried to make contact with the edge of the table and pull herself up again. The world tilted and rocked as she felt herself hitting something hard: she lost her grip on the wooden surface and had fallen hip first onto the unpolished plywood floor. Hard ground met Abbie's face in a painful haze.

The only thing she could see as her vision began to tunnel were the dead grey eyes of Mr. Graham laying beside her, life stolen from his features. The last thing she could find herself holding onto were Elizabeth's vague instructions as the Lieutenant felt the world leaving her. But she couldn't fight the current anymore, and as Abbie's eyes finally closed she felt herself delve into a long desired rest.

Everything was black. Crane's voice faded into the distance. Elizabeth's words held in the center of Abbie's receding consciousness.

"_You must destroy the dagger before it is too late._"

And then, Abbie's heart stopped beating.

* * *

There was a hostile pounding in her brain as Abbie pushed away the comforter, almost as if someone was deliberately pouncing on her head.

_Too many vodka-tonics?_ Jenny would say not enough will power.

There was way too much light shining in through the curtains of Abbie's bedroom, and she supposed that she must have either slept through her alarm or not even bothered to set it, because the sun never normally shone through her window during her normal wakeup call at 6 am.

Actually. Come to think of it, she never remembered the sun _ever_ shining through her window, in the whole history of living in her South-facing apartment.

So... this wasn't her apartment then? Maybe she had been with Crane and crashed at his, this wouldn't be the first time that's happened. But. She also didn't remember ever having anything to drink. Or doing anything at all after leaving Graham Antiquities.

No. Not leaving.

Blacking out.

Abbie shot up in the foreign bed, attempting to gauge her location as quickly as possible. All four walls of the modest and unfamiliar bedroom were beige and void of any decoration- save for a wood-framed oil painting (the piece was a landscape of Tarrytown Lakes, a local nature reserve not far from Jenny's old ward. At the moment, Abbie deemed it unimportant, but would probably go back to it later) that hung on the left of a simple white door.

At her right was a bed identical to hers, made and ready for its owner to climb in and get a night's rest. At the foot was a simple wooden chest, also identical to her own, emblazoned with the initials _V.S.F. _in the same place that hers were written as _G.A.M_.

_Grace Abigail Mills_. The fleeting memory of Elizabeth shouting her name felt like a thousand knives flirting across Abbie's back, leaving a path of stinging flesh in their wake. Beneath her cotton shift, her skin finally began to feel the penetrating winter air seeping through the small window of her bare-bones room, making her feel naked to the world.

Racing to the window, Abbie attempted to not trip over herself as she latched onto the low windowsill, peeking outside.

"_Holy shit._"

Her breathing suddenly became ragged as she frantically tried to calm down. Her grip on the windowsill puttied, sliding down the wall and folding into herself; the white of her shift dramatically ghostlike against her dark and sunkissed skin.

_Was this a dream?_ No it couldn't be. Even when she'd visited Purgatory in her dreams, there was always the smallest inkling that she could escape, that she could find her way home again. This was completely real. Her skin itched under the nightgown, eyes adjusting painfully under the almost-light of the early morning sun. Over stimulation was something she'd never be used to, her whole being screaming at her to go somewhere familiar, anywhere that wasn't here.

_Anywhere but here_.

She turned over her shoulder and peeked out the window again, hoping the world had vanished.

It hadn't. The modest dirt road still remained, where it was lined with sickeningly lovely white and blue flowers, still somehow alive in the dead of winter. A chicken, an honest to God _chicken _made its way across the dull grass as a maid followed the bird's tail, carrying a basket of linens under her arm. Her dark skin contrasted against her dress as Abbie's did, but instead of a night shift, she was outfitted in a plain sienna work dress; the empire waistline cut off by the starched apron at her hips.

_No. No. No._ This couldn't be happening.

She couldn't escape Graham Antiquities but she could escape this. Flight, it was.

The rush of adrenaline surging through her veins pushed her forward as she flung herself at the door and tore it open, dashing out into the hall.

It was dark here, maroon walls not yet lit by the light of day.

She escaped the room from the right of the hall and continued to run through the Georgian style house until she reached a flight of stairs, nearly tipping over the banister.

She ran down the steps, dashing past dozens of well furnished rooms, all full of mahogany furnishings and master works of art, not unlike the piece hanging in her own room. The house was a blur in her mind however, and Abbie feared that she would continue to sprint never finding an escape, until a pounding force stopped her abruptly; grabbing her by the forearms as she crashed into the immovable chest that hollowed with a sudden thud of gravely breath.

The voice was boisterous enough that she'd know it anywhere. The piercingly blue eyes however, leered at her with a nervous restraint Abbie hoped she'd never have to endure again.

"Miss Mills, are you quite all right?"

* * *

_**A/N:** _You guys... I'm the worst author ever. I left you hanging for two months and barely wrote anything! I finally found some inspiration to write, which I hope will last long enough to get through the next few chapters, but I still feel really bad.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Hopefully another will come soon

-Howl


	5. Old Love

_**A/N: **__at this point what is there to say? i'm a horrible author when it comes to deadlines; I made a million and bypassed each and every one, and for that I am sorry. but you guys are so awesome to keep reading and for giving me so much love despite my suckish ways. THAT BEING SAID I feel like I'm going insane. Did any of you see the BOOK that Fox published based of Sleepy Hollow? I'm probs not gonna buy it, but it is now canon that Crane was born in _1949_, which makes him _32_! I went back and changed the years in the last chapter bc uncanon facts make me twitchy. And I'm totally loving Season 2 so far! (but for this fic, I will be going by Season 1 canon alone, and won't reference season 2 since I don't know what will happen yet)_

_-Howl_

* * *

_CHAPTER 5: OLD LOVE_

"Crane!" Abbie respired, leaning into Ichabod's space and hanging onto his clothed wrists like a vice; the brass buttons of his new black Colonial garb making her eyes land on his firm chest. "This is really freaking me out and we need to leave _now_."

He chuckled, looking into her face. It was a strong and jovial sound, one that she could feel throughout his diaphragm as it escaped his lips, "Why do you speak thus? With such strange inflections, like an accent; I do not understand. Are you playing some sort of game with Variety again? You must tell me of it."

Her heart sunk. "_What?_" She staggered a bit where she stood, unable to keep her balance- the long night shift billowing blithely about her feet and making her stumble.

"Are you unwell?" He reached out, making to grab for her forearm. Abbie tried to pull away. This wasn't time for his joking around- they needed to get back to Graham Antiquities and kick Elizabeth's teeth in for stabbing Abbie in the arm, among other things. The growing list in Abbie's mind was already pretty long.

"I'm fine." She staggered again. This time a pang of vertigo hit the Lieutenant, body betraying her by losing balance and seeking Crane's chest as a suitable port to lean upon.

"You most certainly are not _fine_, you're- oh my." Ichabod's eyes had trailed down her form and opened widely when they reached her unbridled bosom; they quickly snapped up again, but this time failed to keep eye contact with her as he blushed like a loon.

"You're not even properly dressed!" He wheezed anxiously, looking around for a moment. His flush abated after leaving Abbie's unkempt form, but all the while he searched for another soul among the throng of rooms surrounding them. "Variety!" he yelled, "Miss Freeman!" No answer.

"Cyrus!" Ichabod called again, his strong treble carrying through the halls. A voice did not call back, but from down the corridor Abbie and Crane could hear the quickening taps of feet upon the floorboards, rushing towards them.

"Ichabod, my love!" hailed a voice before them. Katrina turned the corner and descended towards the Witnesses, her decadent skirts flowing behind her like a tail, "You sounded distressed; what ails you?"

Crane lit up at the appearance of his wife (and Abbie stared like an idiot), his back unconsciously straightening and making Abbie's slouch against him a commodity no longer available.

"It was Abbie," he said, still holding the short Lieutenant by her shoulder and showing off her flushed skin to Katrina.

"Oh my dear Abbie!" Katrina cried, words like sweet honey dripping from her lips- Abbie always hated honey. Ichabod's wife stepped closer, inspecting her, "Are you ill?"

"No!" Abbie curtly answered the same moment Crane said "Yes."

The Lieutenant turned her head back to stare at Crane's face incredulously. She hated when people spoke for her (and was relatively certain Ichabod already knew that; he tried his hardest to accommodate her pet peeves, so long as she respected his).

He stared down at her as well, eyes squinting in displeasure for a contemplative moment, and then looked back up to Katrina. "Yes, she _is_. Dearest, have you seen Variety or Cyrus? I was hoping one of them could lead Miss Mills back to the service quarters for a lie-down until she recovered."

Abbie scowled. The couple's endearments felt like bile in her throat.

"I believe Cyrus is in the stable tending to the horses with Gideon. And the last I saw of Variety, she was with the livestock, finishing her morning ablutions."

Crane sighed, his smile tight as he placed a gentle hand at the small of Abbie's back and attempted to shuffle her down the hall. "Thank you Katrina. I'll lead Miss Mills to bed."

Katrina tutted, walking towards her husband and herding Abbie into her own arms, "Don't be silly, Ichabod. I will lead Abigail to bed and _you_ shall go to breakfast. I will meet you there shortly."

Abbie didn't have the strength to stomach an interjection, for when she took the smallest step forward, the vertigo was upon her again- the rush and unease of her unbalanced feet forcing her knees to collapse beneath her. And as quickly as she had lost consciousness in the witch's shop, Abbie's eyes closed and she couldn't help but wish that this was all just another horrible, shared, magically induced hallucination.

* * *

It wasn't a hallucination.

It was real.

The new, overwhelming heat of the bedroom beguiled her into consciousness, skin looking stretched and steamy with sweat. And when Abbie opened her eyes she could finally see the hot fire that she'd felt dance across her eyelids. She pushed off the bed and stood, panicked, the vibrancy of the flames making her pupils contract in pain while she watched them flicker and thrive upon the billowing skirts beneath her. She felt no heat however; and as she touched her own skin to test her somatosensory, she felt nothing but icy chill. Goose bumps rose on her body, the hair on her arms perking from her own cold touch.

The hell-scape extended around her on all sides, seemingly forever, but Abbie had never felt more claustrophobic. Behind the licking flames covering each wall of her horribly bare new bedroom, the fire had engulfed the drapes, and was now eating her linens and tarring the spotless white paint.

Only the modest door leading into the hall remained unscorched by the inferno. Abbie hoped to race towards it, and as her legs began to move of their own accord, the soles of her feet were scorched and blistered by the burning heat of a coal floor. Abbie cried out, her eyes flooding with tears. Any slight movement felt like a blade in the ball and heel of her foot.

Deciding scarred feet were better than burning alive, Abbie risked the injury and ran for the untouched door. The exit stood closed, silver handle shining flirtingly in front of her. Grabbing for it like the answer to her prayers, the moment that polished handle touched her skin, an intensely crude burst of ice shot from Abbie's cold hand and encapsulated the doorknob, the sudden chill feeling like 100 below in the heat of the room. Throughout the cracks and edges of the door, Abbie's touch ignited a spread of arctic frost, surrounding the post and lintel with a white rime.

She was the winter, scaring away the murderous flames. The pain of her feet subsided and was replaced with a dull numb, the place where her toes touched the floor now a slick iced pathway, stretching as far as the bed behind her. The walls erupted in an icy frost, the fire that plagued them extinguished and replaced with Abbie's snow. As the chill reached the tops of the walls, icicles began to form and drop down from the ceiling like stalactites.

A shiver ran down Abbie's spine. Here, in the cold, she felt naked and afraid. The only time she remembered feeling this way was in the woods with Jenny; energy drained and stockings ripped on the dirt floor after waking up in front of the Four White Trees. A shiver had run through her then, paralyzing her with fear and instilling a trepidation of the frigid cold far within her soul. She reached out for the doorknob, tapping at it with the palm of her hand to loosen the lock in from the ice surrounding it. It barely budged, the metal clinging to itself.

As she gripped it with both hands, willing it to open as she pulled, full force. As she worked it open, the candles around her began to go out. The room faded into darkness and now, in the black, she felt more alone than ever. The handle remained locked. She wanted to bang on the door and demand that someone release her from the prison she was in; throw herself upon the wood until it opened. Hitching up her skirts, Abbie backed away and readied herself to kick at the exit- she would force her way through the ice.

She hit it; the impact of her bare foot on the wood shot through her leg and stung at the bone. _It was better than dislocating a shoulder_, the Lieutenant thought, glad that she'd been trained in forcing her way passed bolted locks. It budged. She kicked again, and this time the lock rattled. Her energy was beginning to drain. Steadying herself, Abbie prepared for one last punt at the door. The old wood splintered outward when she kicked it, fresh air rushing into the bedroom and filling her lungs as she pushed open the door with both hands, stepping into the hall. It felt like a victory, but she couldn't allow herself to smile. There was far more at stake than just opening a door.

Goosebumps rose on her flushed skin again as she entered the service wing. Inside her bedroom the sound of crackling candlelight had covered the void of silence, but in the hall there was nothing to fill the emptiness in her ears. Moonbeams streaked the corridor, lighting her way as Abbie walked through the hall with no particular destination in mind. Old, rotting boards beneath her feet croaked and creaked as she padded over them, bare toes cold on the dead wood.

An undulating hum broke the silence, and an unmistakable breadth of energy swept past her, coming from the far end of the hallway. The vocal tones were rhythmic, musical, hypnotic. From so far away the notes formed no distinct words, but even so, parables of old flirted against her ears; a Siren's song, luring her closer. Abbie's feet began moving before she willed them to, taking it upon themselves to bring her closer to the sweet and alluring vocalities. She stopped before a grand wooden door, snug between the eave and southmost wall of the house. Against the wall at her left stood a lightly ticking grandfather clock, his usually loud clicks drowned out by the voices inside the room. Female voices it seemed, all either alto or soprano, their harmonies and consonance lulling Abbie into a stupor, not paying attention to her surroundings any longer. It may have been hours she stood before that closed door, unaware of any passage of time, and paying attention only to the stories those voices weaved together; tales of religion and sacrifice. None was in English, but Abbie knew perfectly well what they spoke of.

The beautiful crescendo of sound, a climax to their splendor, was interrupted by the chimes of the old grandfather clock. Twelve times it rang, calling for midnight- the Witching Hour- and releasing Abbie from her trance. A shuffling of feet could be seen beneath the door. The orange glow of candlelight momentarily interrupted by the quick flash of feet upon the floorboards inside the mysterious room.

She needed to see inside. She needed the know the secret of their Siren song. Reaching for the handle, this door gave up much less of a fight than Abbie's had. It swung open before she'd even had a chance to touch it, revealing inside seven women sitting around a circular table. Sparse candles were lit, each made with black wax and flickering blithely about the dark room, barely illuminating the small space. The women wore hoods to cover her respective faces, each in a fiercely red velvet, the color of blood.

They moved in tandem, each looking up from the table as one; hands clasped together, eyes entirely white and glazed over. In the center of the table, across from where Abbie stood in the doorway, was Katrina, her pale eyes glinting against the flickering candles, tense and threatening. Beside her, Elizabeth Graham, young and murderous in her scarlet hood.

Each turned their head to meet Abbie's face in the doorway, piercing through her with their gazes. And the seven women said all together, droning and assertively, "_Abigail!_"

* * *

"Abigail!" Crane shouted again, lightly shaking Abbie's shoulder against her mattress, willing her awake.

The right side of her face felt slick and hot, probably covered in an unattractive trail of slobber that had landed there during her dream. _Way to go Abs, real cute._ Eyelashes fluttered against her cheekbones, opening slowly in the daylight of her room. She brought a hand to her face and wiped self consciously at the trail of spit she thought might have been at her mouth. It was dried at her lip, but she tried her best to get rid of it. It really was unseemly to walk around with a saliva covered face. Her mouth was dry, and as she sat up in bed, a terrible headache revealed itself in the front of her brain.

"Brilliant, you've woken." Crane was sitting at the side of her bed, knees facing away from her and towards the wall on her left.

"Yeah, sorry about that… The whole spazzing thing... and then the whole, passing out thing."

"You really have begun to speak in the strangest dialect Miss Mills, I do not know where you learn these things. Perhaps in one of the many books you always seems to be carrying around. One of these days you must share your findings with me, I do so love to expand my knowledge, you know."

Her face grew a bit too hot for her liking, and she was sure a hard flush was racing across her cheeks. He couldn't just _say_ things like that and expect her to not assume he's flirting.

There had been a time where she thought her feelings may not have been unrequited. It was the way that he touched her sometimes, and in such quantities. And maybe he _did_ flirt with her, if that was possible for Crane. Did he flirt? _Decidedly not_, he'd said when she'd raised the question. He thought it was unseemly and rude. "_One should go through such practices with respect and decorum. Your generation is far too frivolous with their emotions. Discotheques? Disgustingly unsanitary_." (For the rest of her life should would always be able to look back and remember Crane's face when they entered a 21-Only club on the campus of a local university for a case, he'd _visibly_ cringed. It was hilarious.)

She snorted, "We're both a bit busy for that, don't you think?" Fighting evil didn't really allow for much down time (except for the rare Scrabble game, which she _always_ seemed to be losing).

"I am positive we could find time; the drudgery of revolutionism allows for it I'm sure. General Washington has consented me a fortnight of leave before our travel southward to Hudson Valley."

She frowned.

"Now you must find your strength again. It had disappeared most suddenly, but I know it remains somewhere within your soul, shining bright as always."

"I'm fine Crane, truly. I suppose I have just been tired." she said, trying to sound as convincing as possible. "Go down to breakfast, be with your wife."

He gave her a wry grin, it twisted his face in a way she was sure was unintentional, full of something she didn't understand, as if he was restraining himself from actually laughing at what she'd said. "As you wish, Miss Mills," he conceded, pushing against his knees to help himself stand. "When you regain your will, perhaps you may help Variety with the menial work this evening."

He straightened the collar of his black jacket. His hair was clean and pulled back with a thin ribbon. She liked seeing him this way; in his own clothes again, and so _clearly_ in his element. Comfortable being at home. She hated to admit it, but that was never something she overtly saw in his behavior back in the 21st century. Her frown deepened. She was alone here, and this was not the Crane she knew. This was a soldier, a professor, a _husband_.

He filled the glass on her table from the ceramic pitcher beside it, nodded once, and exited the room. She sighed.

Her gaze fell upon the wooden chest at her foot of her bed, which she assumed carried her worldly belongings. Pushing aside her blankets, Abbie climbed out of bed and padded the short ways to its foot, kneeling before the box. The initials stamped on its surfaces glared at her, heavy set in the wood, crafted masterfully so time would not wash away the letters. Their existence anchored her here as well, proof that this was where she was to belong.

She found nothing of significance inside besides multiple dresses, modest in both cloth choice and cut; work kit, undoubtedly suited for a servant.

At the bottom of the trunk however, when she'd removed each item of clothing, Abbie found a jagged slip of parchment, no bigger than the length of her hand.

_GAM- You are alone, _it read in a neat calligraphy, _Do your will. - ELIZABETH._


	6. New Allies

_**A/N:**__ I've outlined almost the whole story, and right now I'm thinking it will be about 12-13 chapters + a short epilogue. In this chapter we meet some new characters, and start learning about Crane's past. Again, sorry about the long wait for this chapter, but I made it extra long this time!_

_-Howl_

* * *

_CHAPTER 6: NEW ALLIES_

Abbie sighed at the note and placed it on the floor beside her. She would fret over it later. Now, however, she'd been given instructions by Crane to "resume her work". Abbie realized she was not a guest in this house. She wasn't surprised.

As a black woman in the 18th century (even though she was apparently a Free Woman) there was very little chance for her to have been successful enough to be considered a guest in the Crane's home. Ichabod had come from English bureaucrats. And even though he'd been estranged from his conservative father in the New World, he was a functionary to the Continentals. This title gave him respect and status, and not - Abbie suspected - that Crane would care what others thought of him, but to be seen offering a place under his roof for a Negro seemed somehow out of place in Abbie's mind. She remembered how much Crane respected Cicero, but would he have kept Arthur Bernard beneath his roof?

Sadly, Abbie suspected not; the pressure from other non-abolitionist (racist) revolutionaries probably overshadowing Ichabod's own predilection towards kindness.

So. She was to be a maid. Great, it's not like she hasn't been cleaning up after Crane for the past three years anyway. _Okay, that was mean_, she thought to herself. But to be honest, for the first couple of months Crane had really made a mess of Abbie's apartment whenever he came over. Abbie suspected it was mostly because he was so busy exploring everything in front of him, that he didn't even notice the mess he'd left behind.

The Lieutenant sighed again. She missed Crane so much. Even though he'd been right in front of her less than ten minutes ago, that wasn't _her _Crane. Her Crane was curious about everything, and would light up even at the smallest of new discoveries. Lately the revelations had been few and far between, but he still continued to learn; and when he did, he would flash Abbie that famous Crane smile as his eyes lit up and Abbie could never help but smile back as her heart warmed and her stomach turned to jello.

But, Crane was not here. So Abbie did all that was left to do. She dressed.

The petticoats she'd struggled to put on weren't as bad as she'd expected, but when she walked there as a certain _breeze_ she hadn't been anticipating. The worst however, was the stay she had to wear beneath her dress, and was forced to tighten by herself. Luckily, when she'd dated Luke there was one week where he wouldn't stop talking about how sexy she'd look in a corset. So she'd bought one, and it was the epitome of hell trying to get that thing on. It had been blood red with silver fastenings (and she could privately admit to herself that she _did_ look pretty hot). For the first time in her life Abbie silently thanked Luke and his strange kinks, because if she hadn't had Google to help her out the first time, there was no way she'd been able to get the stay on now. But it was tight and uncomfortable, and Abbie didn't know how she'd get any housework done with this bitch of a busk cutting into her sides.

She'd never missed a bra so much in her life.

The frock Abbie donned was simple and perfunctory; she didn't want to deal with the dress she'd seen with twenty fasteners down the back. In the looking glass Abbie was modest, and as she pulled her hair into a demure bun high on her head, the sienna cotton of her shift was lit by the sun streaming through her small window.

The rays exposed small specks of dust floating blithely about her face. Abbie let her vision blur, the white particles mixing with her reflection as she disappeared into shapes of anthropomorphic color. She stepped away from the mirror and closed her eyes, sighing as she turned back to the trunk and looked inside.

The richest piece of clothing in it was a cloak of scarlet wool broadcloth: well crafted, sturdy material that held heavy in Abbie's hands. The brilliant red fabric seemed too flashy for church wear (if she'd attended in it, Abbie might as well have just worn an emblazoned A as well, and go the full Hester Prynne), but the quality was even better than the Sunday Bests that she'd found. The hood billowed fully around Abbie's face, tying off at the neck where it connected with a metal clasp, the handsome closures made from silver and surrounded by filigree. There was something familiar about the piece, but she couldn't put a finger on it.

The queer thing however, was that as Abbie held the cape over her shoulders and adjusted it to sit comfortably, she noticed in the looking glass a clipping of mistletoe no bigger than two fingers pinned to the cloth at her left breast. Shrugging the thing off, Abbie took the cloak in her hands and ripped away the mistletoe. _Fuck you_, she thought, which was ridiculous because she was cursing out an inanimate object. But it wasn't just the mistletoe she was angry with. The Lieutenant (though she wasn't _really _a lieutenant anymore. That angered her too.) was mad at Elizabeth for cursing her here. And she was mad at Moloch for being a melodramatic bully. And she was even mad with Ichabod for not being with her, which wasn't fair of her to think. She knew if Crane had a choice, he'd be here too. _Together always_, he'd said. And she believed it.

She had to pull herself together, she was a fucking Witness of the Apocalypse, for God's sake. Abbie stood up straighter, taking the mistletoe in hand, and using the pin attached to fasten the talisman to her breast. She looked tired but capable. It would have to do.

* * *

There were three people in the kitchen when Abbie finally found it.

The hallways were a maze, and Abbie cursed the architect, because if it would take her more than twenty minutes to find anything else in this house she would blow a gasket. So when she stumbled upon the kitchen (_it was just off the dining room, why couldn't she figure out the layout of this house?_), three pairs of eyes shot up from where they'd been downcast, deep in conversation.

There were two women. A girl - younger than Abbie, possibly in her twenties, the one who'd been walking across the lawn this morning - looked up first, the hair pinned to her head bobbing wholesomely when she moved. Her skin was a dark brown, but the girl was so _green_ it was palpable from where Abbie stood in the doorway. "Abbie!" she said, curls bouncing. She was lithe and muscular, as expected from endless days and nights of labor, but there was still a cherublike quality to her that couldn't be shaken off, no matter the physical toil. "Feeling better, then?" There was a lilt to her voice, melodic and distinctly _old _New England.

The elder of the women stood by a large black stove, her skin dark too, however it sagged and puffed with age in places that the formers did not. She'd flinched when the girl had yelled for Abbie, probably from the shriek that had caught everyone off guard. Her aged hands held a wooden spoon high, ready to chastise the child. The girl saw the raised utensil in her periphery and just rolled her eyes.

"Sybil, _please_. My only friend was on the verge of death," she raised a demure hand towards Abbie, melodramatic in tone. "I was worried for her. You can hardly blame me for yelling when I find she is once more in good health."

"It's fever season," the elderly - Sybil - said. She lowered the spoon back down to a copper pot simmering on the stove, "Nothing to get worked up over." She placed a hand on her hip, and it made Abbie think of how a teapot stood, short and stout. Not lacking in curves.

"Abigail has a history of working herself too hard," the third said - a man - his old mouth curving up into a smile. "I, myself, was worried for her well being."

The girl grinned, glad that someone was on her side. She looked to Sybil, smug, "See. Papa agrees with me."

The girl's father shook his head jovially, the receding hair that grew upon it white and grey. His physique was unlike Sybil's plumpness and his daughter's lithe, but somewhere in between; strong, muscular, _able_ shoulders, but a stomach that had seen better days and was now large and portly. Possibly too much of Sybil's cooking; even from where Abbie stood in the doorway the aroma of fattening, heavy soul food wafted through the air.

"Yes, well," Sybil harrumphed, her wide shoulders straightening as she looked to Abbie, "Good you're better. All hands on deck, as it were. Variety can't do it all by herself. Cyrus, neither." She nodded to the young woman and the man in turn; Abbie noted their names.

Sybil had the early twang of a Southern drawl, unsurprising considering that even original settlers of the Colonies sounded as if they were modern Bostonians (Abbie wrote her 12th grade thesis on the originating and diverging of accents during this time period, go figure). Abbie wondered where she was born. Beneath the three-quarter length sleeves of her dress, she could see the flecks of scars upon Sybil's arms that looked to be more than just cooking gone awry. Abbie didn't want to think about this strong woman having been a slave. Cyrus, neither. Upon entering the room Abbie had noticed a long white scar tarring the man's brown skin from his neck, peeking beneath the collar of his white shirt, and down to the shoulder. A shiver ran up her spine.

There was an uncomfortable silence. They looked to Abbie as if they expected her to say something, perhaps of gratitude for their well-wishes of her returning to health, but she couldn't think of a thing to say. She felt a bit queasy again, perhaps it would show in her face and she could pass off her silence as a relapse of poor constitution.

Variety's pupils grew large, her sad puppy-dog eyes rivaling even those of Crane. "Well!" she cried, springing into immediate action by taking Abbie's arm in hers, leaping with the older woman in toe as their hands were clasped together and Variety skipped out of the kitchen. She aimed for positivity, hoping the cheer Abbie up in the face of returning to work (it didn't work). "We've so much to do! I believe Gideon requires our help at the Shed."

The Shed, it turned out, was a relatively new looking shack - metal roof and all - attached to a much larger looking stable at the edge of the property. The walk there took no more than ten minutes at a slow pace, beginning where the Manor stood at the centre of Crane's modest lot of land. There was a sharp chill in the air but no wind blew, and Variety found herself quite content idly chatting with Abbie about nonsensical things like preparing supper and doing laundry, for which Abbie could provide monosyllabic and vague responses when she had no real answers to give.

Abbie thought she could like Variety. She was a bit like Jenny, even their physicality showed resemblances. They were both sharp tongued and fierce, laughed easily and heartily. But where Jenny had lost her whimsy at a young age due to reasons beyond her control, Variety had kept it and was able to walk confidently with a blithe skip in her step. Variety Freeman had not felt heartbreak, of this Abbie was sure.

It hurt her own heart a bit more, seeing a woman so close to her own sister's age, but with all of the life that Jenny never had a chance to live. Variety smiled at Abbie, looking down at her short companion as they approached the stable - that smile hurt, too.

The earthy smell of horse manure and hay immediately filled their noses when they were within a ten yard range of the stable. At the farthest corner from where the women stood, at the west most point of the structure was the small shack. It was perfunctory and strong, as if assembled in a hurry but by a master carpenter.

Variety approached and knocked at the door. "Gideon?" she said, rapping slightly, her cheek pressed against the sanded wood. After a quiet beat there was still no answer. Variety smiled lightly, "Never know where that boy is," and pushed through the unlocked entryway, walking into the shadow of Gideon's Shed.

It was dark inside, and still as frigid as the outdoors. Abbie waded at the threshold, staring at Variety as she openly walked through the man's home.

"S' alright," she said, looking back at Abbie, "come in. Papa says we have to dress the horses for winter today, I just need to get their blankets."

Abbie stepped inside. The interior held an eclectic collection of belongings: wood carvings and ceramics and furniture that didn't match: assorted paraphernalia collected through travel, seemingly unrelated to one another but obviously all chosen by the same meticulous eye. A small bed sat in one corner, hardly big enough for a grown man, and beside it an equally small side table. Three chairs sat before a dining table and window in the opposite corner. Only one of the chairs looked recently disturbed and none of the designs were the same, like they'd each been taken from a different dining set.

But it was the sketches on sitting on the table that really caught Abbie's eye. She moved closer, fanning the small stack of portraits across the wood. There was one of Cyrus and one of Sybil, and one Abbie suspected to be a self portrait, for she'd never seen the subject before. Surprisingly there was even one of Crane: done in a hurry with fast, deft penciled lines, as if the model was anxious to move.

Beneath this was a drawing of Variety, her angular face depicted in light and quick strokes that curved and arched into her likeness. Special care had been taken with this one: the tug of her lips flirted with the artist, and fire was lit in her eyes. It wasn't just a flawless render of Variety's beauty but a tribute, and the physical aesthetic wasn't all that pulled Abbie in: it was the palpable mischief.

Variety had found the horse blankets and placed them on the floor beside Abbie, walking up to the table and looking down at the pages sitting there. She reached for the bottom of the stack and pulled out the self-portrait.

Gideon's eyes were too big, like he'd been leaning forward into the looking glass as he painted himself; but there was an urgency within him, a desperation. Those were the eyes of an artist, handsome and devilishly playful. And as Abbie observed her, Variety looked into them as if they were the only eyes she ever wished to see again.

* * *

Crane was much easier to speak with than she had originally anticipated.

Abbie had feared that seeing him again would throw her off this mortal coil. That morning, when Crane had sat with her in bed, a physical pain so strong had engulfed her heart, a sickness of the soul. Because to look into those all-observing, wise green eyes and to see nothing but indifference reflected back in them would have been too much for her to bear.

That night she had been told by Sybil to deliver Ichabod's evening tea to the library. She might have refused, due to her already bad experiences with the twists and turns of this house, but the library was not fifty feet from the kitchen and Abbie had no better excuse other than not wanting to lay eyes on her employer.

Taking up the serving tray Sybil that had laid out, Abbie began slowly making her way to the library. Through the hall windows Abbie could see the moon's reflection in the glass pane, almost full in the night sky.

The door to Crane's study was cracked slightly when she reached it, as if to invite her inside. Pushing it open with her hip, Abbie slipped into the room and found Ichabod pouring himself over paperwork. Maps and charters and forms were strewn about, clippings from an abolitionist paper tacked on a bookshelf beside him. His long hair had escaped its ribbon, flying free at his cheeks and haphazardly pushed back behind one ear. He looked flushed despite a chill in the air.

Abbie hazarded a step further, floorboards croaking beneath her feet. He looked up.

"Abigail," Crane sighed, relieved. Abbie brushed it off as his desperation for the provisions she'd brought him. He abandoned the files and was at her side by the time she placed the tray on the corner of his desk.

"I've brought you tea," she said, stating the obvious, and began to pour it for him as Sybil so heavily reminded (as if she'd forget after the third time she'd said it).

"Yes- Yes, thank you," he said, smiling knowingly as if just her presence had brought it on. He leaned closer, his form towering as he reached for the drink and took it black, despite the cream and sugar she'd brought for him. "Delicious as always," he said after a sip.

She smiled wryly, "Thank Sybil, not me."

"On the contrary Miss Mills, I must show my appreciation for the lovely spread you've so meticulously prepared," he gestured to the plate of biscuits that she'd arranged into a small circular pattern while trying to keep her hands active as he stood beside her. She blushed. "I don't know how you do it," he continued, "running all over the place, keeping this house in order."

"It's my job."

Ichabod set the tea cup down with the soft clink of china against wood, staring at his hands. "Miss Mills- Abbie," he corrected, suddenly quiet, "You know how much it means to me that you have remained here, even after… Well, after." He spoke of things unknown, an occurrence that just the mention of spread a bashful and guilty flush in his cheeks.

She knew he hoped for retribution; if he thought she was being callous, all he longed for was an absolution. She looked at her own hands folded on the table, close to his.

"It's alright." she said. She didn't know what she was forgiving him for but she felt weightless, as if a burden had been lifted from her soul. A small smile curved on his lips, as if something terribly troubling had finally been done away with. Abbie felt lighter, and thought this might be the man she knew after all.

* * *

Abbie stayed silent most days. She worked and she slept and she did not speak, and the others began to notice.

The only time she seemed to open her mouth was when she was with Ichabod. He was her only tether anymore. The only thing left to tell her, _Yes. This is real. You have to be here. For him._

It gnawed at her. Her chest hurt all the time, like the chronic heartburns Corbin used to complain about having after eating his greasy diner food too quickly. Abbie would just give him an antacid to make the pain go away. But this was worse, nothing material could cure her. She was homesick in the worst way. Because long ago she had realized Crane was her home, and she was his. But as he was here, and she was still his, he was not hers.

He was Katrina's.

Katrina was beautiful and regal and lovely, and Abbie could understand why Crane loved her so completely. But that didn't mean Abbie trusted her.

Abbie knew a lot about Mrs. Crane: she knew her favorite color (lavender), and how she liked her tea (two sugars, dash of cream), and that she and Ichabod had been trying for a baby but one would not be conceived (due less to infertility and more to Ichabod's absence in recent months). But she didn't know Katrina personally. They were civil as a mistress and maid ought to be, but this formality in their acquaintance only highlighted the peculiarities in Abbie's inappropriate relationship with the man of the house.

And the others noticed.

They didn't have to look hard to see it. Abbie and Ichabod didn't speak intimately in public or in the presence of Mrs. Crane, but they shared knowing looks and sly glances; private smiles as if they knew something the others didn't.

In the privacy of the library cum Crane's study, their heads could be seen tipped together in private conference as they looked over a large book together, not bothering to take turns reading the text, but Abbie standing with Ichabod flush at her back as his languid breaths tickled the nape of her neck. She would flush each time he put his hand to the passage and ask if she was ready for him to turn the page; not willing to admit that she'd read the same sentence three times over in attempt to distract herself from his almost-touch.

Abbie would break away then, stepping back from the desk on which the book was splayed and return to the tray she'd brought in to carry his tea. There, she would finish laying out his drink in silence, not acknowledging Ichabod's gaze as she turned to curtsy and flee the study.

Back in the hall, where in the dark lamp light stood Variety - witness to the whole affair - Abbie would in a curt and serious tone, tell the younger maid that it meant nothing. If this was meant to convince Abbie more than Variety, neither woman said anything of the kind.

Two weeks after Abbie woke up at Crane Manor, she began to find her niche. She was the studious type, that much was clear. It seemed others always expected her to be seen with a large volume in her hands, absorbing the words as best she could until they were ingrained there (whether her proclivities towards reading came anywhere from her innocent daily trysts in the library with Crane, she was still undecided).

Her days began early: rising before sunrise to milk cows with Variety. She gave in on the third morning and donned her scarlet hood against the cold. Sybil might have called her the harlot, but as long as she didn't get sick again, the cook could say anything she wanted and Abbie wouldn't care. She once entered the house later than usual and bumped into the Cranes, the lady looking at Abbie as if she'd seen a ghost. Katrina's eyes bulged in surprise, masked a second later by serene indifference. Ichabod simply seemed to appreciate the pop of red on a bleak and colorless morning.

After milkings she cleaned for most of the morning until noon, to assist Cyrus with setting lunch.

Rarely did she see either Gideon or Ichabod during the morning, both of their companies usually reserved for the evening when she might visit the Shed with Variety or deliver Crane his evening tea as he worked.

Ending her daily ablutions was preparing the lady of the house for bed. Katrina usually didn't require assistance readying for sleep, but on occasion her dresses were as complicated to take off as they were to don, and she required the help of her maid. Thankfully for Abbie, the removal of stately 18th century gowns is relatively simple and requires no previous knowledge on the subject (which is good, because despite some quick searches in Crane's extensive library, there seemed to be no books covering _Servitude 101_).

This night however, Katrina had felt poorly and retired early - before supper and requesting no assistance in her dressing for bed. She kissed Ichabod's cheek upon leaving the room, and nodded to Abbie and Variety, the latter of whom dutifully curtsied, the former scrapping to mirror the grace of Variety's genuflection. Ichabod's lip twitched upward, trying to hide a smile at Abbie's clumsiness; she couldn't blame him though, she probably did look ridiculous. Crane had eaten alone, sitting only with his paperwork from General Washington for company. He had mentioned to Abbie earlier in the evening that he was preparing to go south for the Hudson Valley soon, to meet with his regiment within the fortnight.

This saddened Abbie. And then it frightened her - twofold, because she now realized that not only was Ichabod to be in mortal peril upon returning to the battlefield, but that she'd been spending more time flirting with Crane then working on the mission she'd been sent here to fulfill. It still felt like a stupid-ass mission, but its completion seemed to be the only way she could return home. And she really needed to go home.

It had barely been four o'clock when Katrina retired however, and was now going on seven. Walking down the corridor on her way to the Cranes' bedroom, serving tray in hand, Abbie thought of ways to possibly speed things along as she brought Katrina her supper. Was summoning a demon to do her dirty work out of the question? _Of course it is Abbie, what the fuck?_ She didn't even know where the Stone was, or the dagger! How was she supposed to protect one and destroy the other when she didn't even know where they were?

The utensils on her silver tray clinked together as Abbie started up the service stairs at the back of the house. She hated to use them because they were dank and steep, and reminded her that she was a servant; but it was the closest staircase to both the kitchen and Katrina's bedroom. So Abbie sucked it up and began ascending them, one at a time as not to spill Katrina's stew. (Even practicing with this thing everyday, Abbie couldn't walk any faster then a slow stride without liquid slopping over the sides of the tray. At this rate it would take her all night to serve the food, and it would have gone cold by then.)

_Finally_ reaching the peak of the staircase, Abbie let out a relieved breath and tried to loosen up her shoulders. As she started in the direction of the master bedroom the grandfather clock rang - chiming seven times. There wasn't much light in the corridor now, the sun having set two hours go, but the dim flicker of candle light shining against the patterned wall paper was enough to lead the way.

The wick in the lamps crackled and snapped quietly in Abbie's ears as she passed by each of them; a small symphony of the night singing to her. She reached the door to Katrina's bedroom and the sound of the candles only grew louder in her ears. A bout of deja vu hit her. She felt a rush of energy then, like the sweet sound of soprano voices entering her ears and mingling with the melody of the candle light.

Setting down the tray beside the door, Abbie abandoned the meal and pressed herself against the painted wood.

Only silence came from inside the bedroom, everything still and quiet; the queer surge through her body going dead and dormant when she tried to find its source.

Backing off of the doorway, the voices rose again, this time coming from down the hall. This was all too familiar. Like a dream she couldn't recall the beginning of, never able to remember how she'd gotten there. But here she was, now standing outside of the storage closet at the end of the hallway.

The swell of voices erupted in Abbie's ears again, but unlike in her dream, the parables spoke not of vague images of religion and sacrifice, but the words rang true and clear in her mind: the story of a heroine and her lover, sacrificing their bond for the greater good.

_Body and soul, O love of thine,_

_Will forfeit th' remembrances long'd past_

_Once unknown to she _

_Will be gone but for in eternity's sleep,_

_Convalesced only til you be borne_

_And in such fruitless time, she who does not know_

_Will be th' one to hold your truth._

The words were too beautiful, too much, too true. This room held secrets, her secrets. The hidden truth not yet revealed. But Abbie would revel in it. She must. And so she opened the door.


End file.
